


Coins

by Florayna



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Gore, Multi, Nothing is happy in this ungodly long plot, Or are they happy, Violence, happy endings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-08 13:45:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13459497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florayna/pseuds/Florayna
Summary: Based off a prompt given to by a member of the Moicy discord (Multikicker on AO3):'The United Nations sanctioned the creation of the worldwide peacekeeping organisation, 'Overwatch', to safeguard the world from threats. But power attracts the corruptible, and after a decade of existence Overwatch has gone on to exist as a paramilitary entity that runs the world, cracking down on any and all governments that resist its rule.But as with all police states, there are resisters. A loosely organised resistance, calling themselves 'Talon', has banded together to enact a campaign of guerrilla tactic-enabled vengeance against those who seek to control them.With spies in both camps, the countdown is at one.....Go nuts'





	1. Teacher's Pet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Multikicker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multikicker/gifts).



"The world could always use more heroes."

But how many of those could possibly live up to the example of Lena Oxton? Tracer, the Bubbly Brit, poster girl of Overwatch, Strike Commander Morrison's left hand- the list goes on. 

But Captain Oxton is known for more than just her titles. A malfunction while testing the 'Slipstream', an experimental aircraft, left her a fickle relationship with existence in time, but also with a tremendous gift. The Chronal Accelerator. Combine the ability to warp through time at one's will with an attitude that mostly comprised of concentrated sunshine, and there she'd be. Tracer. Catch phrases and all.

The thing that truly made her special though was not the circumstances from which she gained her trademark abilities. It was the fact that her selflessness and demeanour wasn't exclusive to the battlefield that truly endeared her to each soul blessed with Lena's presence. Need a hand delivering some papers across the base? Tracer's here! Prototype weapon's testing? 'Let me give you a hand with that Love!'. Just want someone to talk to over a quick break? Well talking is something Lena sure does a lot of!

Invaluable. Dedicated to a fault. The kind of woman who inspires people to do the right thing. Of course everyone trusts her, of course she knows everything that goes on in Overwatch. Of course Overwatch is lucky Lena Oxton joined up, ever vigilant for something to do.

_Of course, Talon is lucky to have her loyalty._


	2. Blood Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing- Lena's opposite! In a way, kinda. I've said to much? Spoiler alert?

When Moira left for university she never looked back at her family. There wasn't anything much left to it apart from distant relatives. Her parents died in a car crash shortly prior to her departure; black ice, a sheer drop, no safety rails in the rural countryside. It'd been a sudden and brutal occurrence. Her elder brother was off in England, nearing the completion of his own studies, but he returned upon hearing the news with utmost haste. She wouldn’t have expected any less of him.

 

The O’Deorain siblings had always been so much alike, fiery short hair and piercing blue eyes (though one of Moira’s deviated). Only just over a year's difference in age. Their similarities didn't stop at appearance, and it was ironically that reason they found it so hard to get along. Driven people but with interests worlds away from one another. A scientist and a businessman without any common ground to stand on. They cared of course, that much was apparent by how they assuaged the other's grief after their parent's funeral. But as was aforementioned... driven people.

 

Moira went to study, as did he, countries dividing them once again. Besides a yearly Christmas card or birthday gift in the mail, Moira and Conor went on their own paths for two decades. She liked their relationship this way, it was easy for her to devote herself fully to her work. Nothing held her down except the stupidity of those around her. And that alone was certainly enough dead weight.

 

Moira was twenty-nine when Conor died.

 

It was 10 PM when she got the call, and 1:27 AM when she boarded a plane from Germany to England. She did so to meet the five year old niece she hadn't known existed, currently staying with friends of Conor. A girl who had just been robbed of her parents. A girl, she later learned, who had the O'Deorain brand of fiery hair and unfamiliar brown eyes. Her mothers eyes, Moira assumed.

 

Moira had never considered herself a particularly maternal person, nor one capable of caring effectively for a child. Not to mention the distraction her niece would cause if she resided with the scientist. There was no advantage to having her around. Only complications and delays and expenses that, while she could certainly afford, would prove an inconvenience.

 

And yet Moira couldn't help but treasure her niece. Emily O'Deorain.

 

 

 

 

Which is precisely the reason Moira left Overwatch for Talon. Her niece had months prior, but no amount of pleading or threatening on her part could convince the younger O’Deorain to abandon the foolish crusade. There was no way they could win a fight against Overwatch, no matter what tactics they employed. It was futile. A waste of energy, a waste of life and therefore a waste of potential. Most importantly this little ‘uprising’ would be a waste of her time. But logic always seemed so… flawed to Moira, whenever her precious niece was involved.

 

So. She did what she had to, in order to ensure Emily’s safety above all else.

 

Talon readily accepted her into it’s ranks. An accomplished Geneticist, one who had in-depth knowledge of Overwatch’s recent activities, who had an emotional stake in Talon’s interests? She was given whatever resources they could spare. In return, she gave them the Reaper, Widowmaker, and her own front line services. All these things accomplished through the research she wasn’t given free reign to pursue in Overwatch.

 

But while one hand gives… the other takes.

 

While she did all of this, Moira also sent a steady stream of information back to her beloved Angela, to be relayed to high command. Talon’s plans, equipment, targets, identities of conspirators, these were all part of the price she paid for the guarantee of Emily’s safety. So long as her post proved useful, her headstrong niece would not be targeted. If captured, released once Talon had been permanently dismantled. To add to the benefits of her mission, the Strike Commander had even dangled an… extremely appealing reward before her. One that would be granted once a condition was fulfilled. A simple request in nature, one that had thus far proven frustratingly hard to deliver on. But she was not one to give up easily, or at all for that matter.

 

Moira would discover the identity of Overwatch’s traitor. One way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahah! So Tracer is Talon's spy, and Moira is Overwatch's. But neither know who the other really is. Ready for the drama lama to pay us a visit?


	3. Mo Stór

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely self-indulgent Aunty Moira fluff. Because there just isn't enough of this in existence.
> 
> PS: this is set 18 years before present day Overwatch. Because... smol Emily.

 

Two toasted slices of whole grain bread. A trio of short breakfast sausages, seated on a pile of scrambled eggs. A petite bowl of cereal, proportionally sized pitcher of milk beside it. A dish of sliced strawberries, and a glass of freshly made orange juice. Not the perfectly balanced breakfast in Moira’s opinion, but it would have to do.

 

If only the one having it were less of a picky eater.

 

And speak of the devil. Out of her room and into the living area of the modern condo came Emily O’Deorain, now 7 years old and dressed appropriately for the school day ahead. A knee length black skirt, white dress shirt and a thick grey sweater vest that bore her school’s crest as a patch over her heart. And wearing the scowl of a child's limitless fury.

 

She walked over to Moira, who remained motionless where she stood by the kitchen counter. Wordlessly, the girl raised her fists. Clutched tightly within them was a length of blue and silver cloth- her school tie. Most children at her age were only required to use clip ons but Moira had staunchly refused to dress her niece with those... abominations. However... even after two months of being shown how to properly tie her tie, the first grader still found trouble with it.

 

Moira sighed deeply.

 

"The state of you..." She teased, smiling ever so slightly at the child who was barely eye level with her waist.

 

"Aunty Moiraaaa," Emily whined in return, stomping her right foot dramatically on the floor. "Help me! It's too hard!"

 

"A demand is hardly the proper way to request my assistance, dear." Moira said, and quirked an eyebrow as evidence of her displeasure.

 

Emily glared at first, but quickly deflated under her aunt's unimpressed gaze. She had that kind of temper. Passionate outbursts and guilty recompenses. "Please help me do my tie?"

 

"It would be my pleasure, mo stór."

 

Emily smiled cheerfully as Moira sank to her knees, outburst forgotten as deft hands went to take the offered tie. She didn't understand much Gaelic, her father had never used it unless he stubbed his toe, or spilt some of his tea... but those were bad words. Not like that nickname Aunt Moira gave her. That meant 'dear one', or something? And it also sounded pretty funny to her childish young ears.

 

"All right," Moira adjusted the now properly done tie with one last tug, then rose back to her full height. "Have your breakfast. We leave in ten minutes, lest you be late."

 

Emily nodded and spun around to go sit at the table, looking out at the generous breakfast prepared for her. She always had big breakfasts 'to ensure she was satisfied through till lunch' which would probably be some chicken salad, or sandwich. Along with some cheese and crackers for a snack, which she'd probably trade with one of the other girls for some sweets.

 

Emily reached for her bowl of cereal first (of course she did). First she poured the milk in, then quickly tried to shovel it down before her wheaty bits turned soggy. That'd be 'utterly disgusting', or 'vomit inducing', or 'the catastrophe of the century'.

 

Okay maybe she wasn't exactly sure what that last one meant. But Aunt Moira had said that about the state of her dress shirts one time when she accidentally put them in the wash along with a pair of Emily's red socks. So she figured it meant something pretty bad. Bad like, how bad her then pinkish-shirts looked before she threw them out.

 

"May I put your lunch into your school bag?" Moira asked the clearly spacing out Emily. The girl whipped her head around to face her aunt, who stood by the door of their home, a lunch box in one hand and cup of tea in the other. She nodded of course, Moira hadn't asked because she doubted Emily would let her near her backpack. It was a matter of respect. Moira might not have been the best role model but that didn't meant she was going to simply avoid instilling some values in her niece.

 

While Emily moved on from her cereal to her eggs and sausages, Moira unzipped her bag. Some books and stationary needed to be shifted around to avoid being crushed, as well as... a craft? Moira pulled a sheet of slight crumpled purple construction paper out, quickly replacing it with the lunch box and zipping the bag up once more with one hand. There was absolutely no need for whatever it was to be ruined.

 

And 'it' was a poem, that much could be told at a glance. Moira focused less on the words at first and more on the craftsmanship as she made her way back to the table. It was written on a blank piece of paper, then cut out and glued onto the thicker purple piece. On the boarders were hearts drawn on with a plethora of different colours, and a couple of stickers of random things. A star, a dog, a smiley face.

 

Then she moved onto the title, drawn at the top in thick purple marker.

 

**_My Aunt_ **

 

Moira paused. Her eyes drifted up from the paper to the girl who cheerfully ate only a few steps away from her. Curiosity brought her mismatched eyes back to the words.

 

**_My aunt's name is Moira O'Deorain,_ **

**_She doesn't like it when her clothes get STAINed._ **

**_My aunt takes care of me every day,_ **

**_Even though she never gets to play._ **

**_My aunt has a blue eye and an orange eye,_ **

**_And she really loves to wear a tie._ **

**_My aunt is really tall,_ **

**_Thats all._ **

 

"We were suppose to make a poem about our family." Comes the small, suddenly timid voice of Emily. Moira lowers the paper just enough to see her niece, without revealing the smug grin on her face.

 

"I see." The geneticist says evasively, moving to sit down at the table. She places the poem in the middle, and considers methods of preserving it while she sips her mug. Would a glass case be too much? Should she invest in a filing cabinet for this and future crafts? Would photocopies be prudent? Moira's right hand goes to her tie, fingers idly running along the rich purple fabric while she thinks.

 

"Do you like it?" Emily's question interrupts her thoughts. Moira can see out of the corner of her eyes that Emily's gaze is fixed down on the last bit of egg on her plate. She just pushes it around, with no intent of eating as she awaits Moira's verdict.

 

"Well, apart from your obvious difficulty rhyming with our last name at the start," Moira says, exaggerating her contemplating tone as she lowers her cup. It gets a giggle out of Emily, who looks up now, eyes hopeful. Something about naive happiness is so infectious... Moira can't help but feel her lips form a kind smile. "I quite like it dear. Now hurry and get your shoes on, you may eat your strawberries in the car today."

 

Just like that, they're set in motion once again. Moira quickly moves the fruits into a tupperware while Emily brings their shoes and bags to the door, a red backpack and a briefcase. All part of their practised routine.

 

 

 

 

 

Moira puts the car in park, the two now having arrived at Emily's school with a few minutes to spare. She leans over the centre console to reach back and help the girl with her door.

 

"Have a good day at school, mo stór."

 

Emily nods, leaning over to give Moira's cheek a kiss. "You too Aunty Moira!" She says, not exactly making sense but at least the sentiment is there.

 

Moira stays parked, and watches the girl run with the fervour of youth until she reaches the doors of her school. Teachers wait there to usher the younger students inside, but before she disappears into the building Emily turns around. Her determined brown eyes settle quickly on the car, and she raises her arms to wave with furious intensity to her aunt.

 

Moira’s lips curl into an amused grin as she raises her own hand to give the girl a single, final wave goodbye. Once she's loses complete sight of Emily, and only then, does the scientist turn to put her car back into drive.

 

She walks into her lab later with a happy quirk in her lips and a vigour in her step. Sure, Moira would still give any co-worker who dared to waste her time the same old brand of sharp dismissal she was known for, but she'd do so with an almost smug sort of happiness. That was something she seemed to be a lot more in the past two years... happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this aside, because I honestly couldn't write anything without getting this down first, we move onto *drumroll please* Lena and Emily! And, that's the only spoiler you'll receive from me for now. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment if you want to see something in particular! Or, just to say hi I guess XD


	4. No Good At Pick-Up Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena wants to make sure nobody follows when she goes to meet her Talon contact for the first time.
> 
> She takes her precaution too far.
> 
> The unexpected ensues, but her wasted ass won't remember any of it in the morning.

Let there be no doubt that Lena is, one-hundred percent, devoted to her work.

 

See, working for Overwatch is one of the most stressful occupations you could pursue. After its key role in putting down the Omnic crisis, then subsequent efforts to stabilize and rebuilt governments around the world, the Petras Act was passed by the UN. It's a long, wordy sort of thing with a simple message.

_ _

_ Any and all actions taken by Overwatch agents that correspond with Overwatch's overall mission and specific operational procedure are to be allowed and assisted by all known legal, and governmental agencies.  _

 

This of course means Overwatch is required to use the full extend of it’s power to maintain the peace it ushered in after the Omnic Crisis. If there is a dispute between countries, Overwatch is called in to mediate. Suspicious military activity? Overwatch has the clearance to police all military operations. And any attacks by terrorist organizations (Talon is only one of many) are usually seen as Overwatch's responsibility too.

 

If your employment doesn't fall under one of those responsibilities, then you're part of the research and development sectors. Weapons, medicines, cutting edge technologies, there’s always something that could revolutionize the lives of people around the world being worked on. The deadlines for progress are strict and expectations monumental. Overwatch needs these advancements to stay ahead, to keep fulfilling their integral role in a worldwide society.

 

Naturally, when given the chance, agents are expected to cut loose on their breaks from the pressure of non-stop work. Some people spend time with their families. Some blow a month's salary on vacations with co-workers. And others, they prefer to drink themselves into the floor of a bar. Which, is what Captain Oxton was doing at the moment. You know, to... keep appearances up. Just another normal agent! Yup. This feeling was the euphoric reward of unyielding devotion to maintaining her cover.

 

Or the feeling of all those pints she's lost count of finally catching up to her... on second thought the feeling was more dizzy than it was euphoric. Definitely the pints.

 

Either way, there Lena was, nearly tripping over herself as she tried to navigated her way out of a crowded pub. How many had she been to tonight? Five? Seven? Eleven? They all seemed to bleed together... heck, Lena didn't think she even saw the walls of half of them thanks to all the people around. Not that her cheerful, tipsy (maybe more than just tipsy) self minded. Crowded was good! It warmed everyone up from the chilly air outside.

 

And also made her harder to follow.

 

Lena wasn't worried about being discovered, but it was better to be cautious than reckless. Especially given the information she was carrying with her today.

 

The chilly early morning breeze that greeted Lena outside the pub was like a wave of instant regret. She whined softly, dancing from foot to foot as she shoved her hands into her hoodie's pockets. The signature bomber jacket would've been warmer, but the Brit also needed to keep a low profile. The pub was warm. She could go back in, get another drink or two to keep her fingers toasty...

 

She raised her left wrist, looking at her watch. 3:27...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lena smiled like a complete dumbass, leaning on the wall of the alley. She listened to the fading steps of the Talon Agent and couldn’t help the way her mind wandered.

 

It'd started when she arrived at their agreed meeting location. Nearly two hours late. It wasn't her fault, she would reason, it was the pubs! Not checking to make sure that their customer didn't have somewhere to be. And serving her alcohol! They didn't even ask for her ID! She could've been, what, 10, nobody would be the wiser. Yeah. Totally not her fault.

 

But then her bleary eyes focused on the woman who waited there. One Lena had never seen, but assumed was the one she had been contacting through encrypted messages and dead drops for the past few months.

 

She was tall- a good couple of inches advantage over Lena, and had the most striking red hair she'd ever seen. A thick black overcoat hung around narrow shoulders, held close to her body by a belt that hugged a shapely waist. A no doubt dumbstruck Lena then looked up, into the warmest pair of hazel eyes she'd ever seen.

 

Also the most furious. Not a second later she found herself shoved against a wall, feet dangling beneath her as the woman pinned Lena's chest between the cold stone wall and her forearm. She started asking questions. 'Why are you here?', 'what did you do with my informant?', 'Are you alone?'.

 

 

__

_" And don't even try to tell me you're our spy, Lena Oxton." The redhead had hissed the first time the smaller Brit tried to open her mouth. "I seriously doubt that Overwatch's poster child would defect. Especially to Talon."_

_Lena, ever the logical drunk, acted on the first thought that crossed her mind._

_"You're Irish Love?" She'd somehow managed to slur out, grinning like an idiot. "Because Irish you'd … uh… wait it, I’m suppose to say- "_

_"Is there a problem here ladies?"_

_That's when the police officer had come, shining his flash light down the alley. Lena couldn't blame him for doing so. As far as he could see, someone might have been getting mugged and it was his job to uphold the law. In fact, Lena wanted to chase him down and thank him. Not so much for scaring the both of them shitless- because the last thing either of them needed was trouble with authority when they were suppose to be flying under the radar. What she did want to thank him for was the kiss._

_One second she was wiggling, trying to get out of the woman's firm hold on her. She couldn't be seen- couldn't chance behind recognized by him. And the next second she was pushed flat against the wall. Her surprised squeak was muffled by a pair of soft lips, and any desire to push the redhead away snuffed out when the woman's warm body was pressed flush against her own. As was any attempt to push her away when Lena felt the point of a knife pressed dangerously firm against her back , directly beneath her left shoulder blade ._

_The redhead pulled back- lips barely a breath apart as she whispered._

_"Play along."_

 

Lena played along all right. She was sober enough at the time to know getting stabbed in the back is a bad thing.

_Lena’s cold fingers found refuge in her new partner-in-crime's hair, stroking it with a tender touch as their lips met again. This time with insistence, a forced passion on both ends but Lena quickly found herself 'forcing' less and less. It's the drinks, she told herself, when the other's free hand travelled from her waist down her leg, leaving an electrifying path in her touch's wake. It was gentle. It’s just the drinks. And then she was rough again, yanking Lena's leg up by the back of her knee, hooking it around her waist as their bodies just kept getting closer. The cold didn't bother her any more._

_"Erm... enjoy your... morning… " Came the bashful farewell of the officer. His footsteps turned away, getting softer and softer... with each step the pressure of the blade held to her back lessened._

_Once the officer left the alley, the taller of the two pulled away, taking two steps back. Lena nearly whined at the loss of contact, warmth, but the vision of a woman before her caught the noise in her throat. Her hair was perfectly mused, cheeks red from more than just frostbite, lips slightly parted as she caught her breath. The knife, a small thing only three inches long, was still clutched tightly in her hand. The other tried to straighten her coat as she regained her composure.  And scowl._

_"You have horrendous taste in beer, by the way."_

_It came across far less threatening than she meant it to be.  More than enough to tickle Lena, who was so lush that everything seemed laughable. Oxton  only stopped giggling when she heard a paper crunch as she doubled over._

_"Oh shite, that's right," She reached into her hoodie, from the neck hole. It was even more ungraceful a gesture than anyone could have expected- but Lena was too soused to particularly care. After a few moments, her clumsy fingers produced  an envelope that had been taped on the inside  of the sweater . Very spy like. And so very... Lena. "Here's your stuff!"_

_It was all but snatched out of her swaying hands by the other, who gave Lena one last, sceptical once over  before she turned her eyes to the envelope. Any trace of unprofessionalism vanished as she examined it. Her contact always send documents in the same type of envelope, and this one seemed to be legitimate enough.   She didn’t spare Lena even a glance as she turned to leave._

_“If you’re really our informant, you’ll hear from me soon Oxton.”_

_" Well uh… Cheers, love?”_

__

Then Lena smiled like a complete dumbass, leaning on the wall of the alley. She listened to the fading steps of the Talon Agent and couldn’t help the way her mind wandered. Soon the Brit would need to head back home. But until then, she could let her booze-soaked mind day dream about the knife totting, Irish Talon agent with the really nice face. And arms. And hands… and everything.

 

 

 

 

 

From the rooftops above the alley, a figure waited. Watching. Only it’s head peeked over the building’s ledge. Three turquoise lines illuminated the shadows cast by an indigo-black hood, forming an opened edged triangle of sorts in their pattern. This figure, whoever they were, left when Emily did, leaving Lena Oxton in the alley. Truly alone.

 

They’d seen what they needed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, kids, is how Lena met Emily. In this universe anyway... 
> 
> What's in the envelope? Something more important than you think.  
> Who was spying on them? Someone you really shouldn't be worrying about yet.  
> Is making out with strangers in dark alleys at 4 in the morning a good thing? Only in fanfics.
> 
> Next chapter is focused on the envelope! And, it'll include heavy mentions of a certain pink-haired genius.


	5. Gains in Zero Gravity

Emily slammed the car door shut. And while she sat in her freezer box of a ride, she lamented how the night hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped.

 

Their spy in Overwatch, whose identity was revealed to __apparently__  be Captain Lena ‘Tracer’ Oxton, was late to their arranged meeting. The tardiness alone was cause for concern. The whole time Emily had been left to consider all the ways something could have gone wrong- perhaps their contact had been discovered, or worse yet maybe this meeting was a trap? The thoughts were worrying enough to put her so on edge that she’d nearly shanked the poor, tipsy woman when she’d first wandered into the alley. The Talon agent scowled at the thought- because, right, the infuriating woman had been drunk off her ass!

 

Emily slammed a fist onto the steering wheel, as if it’d alleviate the frustration. She was responsible for this informant, it was her first real mission to be assigned by ‘Reaper’. So what on earth did she do to deserve this mess? Why did it have to be Lena Oxton? Why did she have to be such an idiot? Why did she have to almost get their exchange busted by a cop? Why-

 

Movement from the alley across the street caught her eye. Emily watched the woman in question, wild brown hair peeking out from her hoodie as she stumbled onto the sidewalk. Even from this distance she could pick out that god damn grin on the Brit’s face.

 

And why did she have to be so cute?

 

Emily sighed, resting her hands on the centre of the wheel. So maybe she’d had a bit of a crush on Captain Oxton for awhile. It was kind of hard not to. With how much Overwatch flaunted their golden girl on posters, in interviews, during their more ‘heroic’ missions, hell even in their sometimes controversial merchandise, it was a miracle to not fall victim to Lena Oxton’s untouchable allure. Except that Emily, the gay mess she was, HAD touched her. Mostly it had been to get that policeman to walk away but…

 

_No no no no no._

__

No. Emily was NOT going to think about what came next. Not the rush of heat when she pushed Lena up against the wall, not how she’d almost shuddered when Lena’s fingers were in her hair, and certainly not how easy it would have been to-

 

“God, fucking, damn it.” _Focus._

__

Emily reached into her coat’s inner breast pocket, ripping open the paper. Time to see if this information was really worth all the trouble.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

__34 hours later, Russia__

 

Aleksandra Zaryanova. Champion Weightlifter, Bodybuilder celebrated as one of world’s strongest women. On the eve of the tournament that would cement her stardom, she chose instead to leave that life behind. What could possibly convince this woman to abandon the path to fame? A thirst to protect her homeland from the threat of omnics.. though she didn’t stay long on the front lines.

 

For a month the village she had been born in was under siege, and Zarya had watched far too many people she’d known since childhood, both fellow soldiers and civilians, perish. Murdered by omnics. Maybe it was the fury or perhaps the pain that fuelled her actions but either way the result was the same. A hulking omnic equipped with experimental weaponry, impressive and terrifying by anyone’s standards, attacked. There were too many casualties. The commander officers who were left were about to signal a retreat when Zarya broke from their position, charging headlong into the fray. Her comrades had thought the weightlifter had lost her sanity.

 

In fact, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Before she grew into her colossal strength Aleksandra was marked as special for a keen mind. The main weapon mounted on the primary omnic was too powerful for the scraps re-purposed as anchors to the hull. She recognized this as a weakness to exploit when the metal strained to keep the high-recoil cannon in place. It was a maneuver that turned the tide of the battle in the RDF’s favour, as with the powerful technology in their hands, the omnics were forced to retreat.

 

Aleksandra received commendations for her actions on the battlefield. But the newest ‘Hero of Russia’ would not be allowed back into the field, despite her protests.

 

The reason she was given was morale. It was already startlingly low in not only the ranks of military personnel, but also in civilians. The people needed a protector to believe in; one who wouldn’t perish suddenly. And that is how Aleksandra found herself in this position… Weapons Development for the RDF. Instead of serving with her considerable strength, she was to do so with a sharpness of mind that commonly went overlooked.

 

 

 

 

 

Zarya did not like being disturbed while she worked.

 

It was the main reason why she had been given her own hanger, not that the other people in her department minded. More than a few had taken one look at her and dismissed her usefulness. ‘Just another brute’ they’d thought. Aleksandra was more than willing to let them talk, let her work prove them wrong. In the scant year she had worked there the RDF had been equipped with lightweight versions of the original Particle Cannon, and variations existed thanks to her developments. Bomb squads had models that could construct Particle Barriers strong enough to contain explosions to a small dome, others served as grenade launchers with limitless ammo, and the list went on. A personal favourite of hers was the Particle beam… strong enough to cut through armoured plating like butter.

 

It would take many years for her to develop a way to condense all these functions into a model that was light enough for the average soldier. Mostly due to the limited funding available, but also in part due to the fact that she was constantly being disturbed for a variety of reasons. Assistance in weapons testing, her opinions on uses for experimental equipment on the battlefield. She may hate omnics… but Zarya was growing less and less fond of people too.

 

Yet the disturbances kept coming. Exhibit A, the incessant knocking at her door.

 

Aleksandra ignored it for a little while, unwilling to move from her seat while she tinkered with the original Particle Cannon. Her pride and glory. It looked far different from the day she hijacked it, now all the more powerful. Yet still so massive that only she alone could use it effectively.

 

“Sergeant Zaryanova!” Exhibit B, the incessant knocking growing a voice.

 

Zarya leaned away from the weapon, turning her head in the direction of the door. Well, it seemed the annoyance had no intention of leaving her in peace. She made her way over to the door in a few lengthy strides, yanking the reinforced plate open as if it were made of paper.

 

“Yes.” She said, an acknowledgement more than it was a prompt for whoever knocked to state their business. Speaking of…

 

A man in uniform lowered his fist now that the door was opened. He wore a crisp white dress shirt, only the collar visible beneath a dark blue suit jacket and matching tie. Golden buttons held his attire snug against his form, and a beret of the same navy shade rested on his head. That was what caught Zarya’s attention, because on that beret was a crest…

 

Overwatch.

 

“Good afternoon Sergeant,” He said, all too cheerfully extending his right hand to the woman. “I’m Second Lieutenant Moretti, Overwatch representative. My companion over here is Corporal Gladstone.”

 

Zarya didn’t shake his hand; in fact the man was damn lucky she didn’t outright throw the door at him when she saw who this ‘Corporal Gladstone’ was. An omnic, wearing attire much the same as his commanding officer, except with a shotgun resting on his left, the gun strap secured around his metallic chest. But it was not the gun that unsettled Aleksandra, she’d seen plenty of those. It was the machine’s electronic eyes, fixed ahead, more looking past her than at her. Almost… soulless. She’d expect nothing less from one of those -things-.

 

“Ah, well,” Moretti lowered his hand, though the man didn’t seem troubled at all by the flat out rejection of his greeting. He just kept smiling, shoulders square and arms now neatly at his sides. “May we come into your…” He paused, glancing past Zarya and into the hanger she worked in. “… office, I suppose. I am here to deliver something from the Strike Commander himself.”

 

“Visitors are not allowed to be armed.” She replied, turning a steely gaze onto the man. She stood a head taller than him, and even in her civilian clothing of sweat pants and a hoodie, she was still about as imposing a figure as one could get.

 

The Lieutenant just laughed.

 

“Oh but we aren’t just visitors Ms.Zaryanova. Like I said, representative of Overwatch. On **official** business. So- well, I mean if you don’t mind…” He cocked his head to the side, eyes darting past Zarya once again. He was quite obviously intent on not being denied, and it wasn’t as if she had the ability to refuse him. As long as the subject of his visit was Overwatch business, few people could claim the authority to turn him away.

 

Resisting the urge to punch the man right then and there, Aleksandra stepped aside, making room for both to enter. “Please. Be my guest.”

 

“Excellent! Well, before I get to the heart of the matter…” He stepped past Aleksandra, already launching off into a rant of how he admired her work. She listened half-heartedly, attention on the onmic that walked in behind him. The hanger she took as a workspace was small, only big enough for a single plane, and much of it was occupied with desks and weapon racks, all teeming with various different projects she was working on at the moment.

 

“-nd we’re always looking for ways to improve you see, so oh, about four months ago I’d say…” He kept talking. Aleksandra narrowed her eyes on the man, his stiffly gelled brown hair and far too happy expression. He was here to get something from her, of that the soldier had no doubt, but what? Weapon schematics? They didn’t need to come to her for those.

 

Gladstone stood dutifully at the ranting officer’s side. His head slowly swivelled from left to right, like he was surveying the area. It didn’t sit right with Aleksandra. Not at all.

 

“-hat’s why we need people like you. Ms.Zaryanova.” The lieutenant’s smile turned to a toothy, far too pleased with himself grin when Aleksandra turned back to him, the anger of her expression now turned to confusion. “People who are innovators! Intelligent, tenacious. And more than capable of putting the fruits of their labour to good use. And that, also, is why I’m here today. To offer you a place in Overwatch’s weapons develo-

 

“No.”

 

“... Development program.” He continued, his expression unflinching at the interruption and his tone unwavering. “As you will see in the contract the Strike Commander approved, you will receive funding that makes what you are afforded at the moment pale in comparison, and after completing the required training you will also be cleared for field duty. Because honestly, a woman like you? A solider like you? What are you doing, spending all your time locked away in this metal box?”

 

“The answer is no.” Aleksandra repeated flatly, as if saying so left the man no room to argue. Then moved to return to the Particle Canon to resume her work. Let them find their own way out, she was done speaking. Except suddenly, the much shorter man was standing in her way, half laughing, half sighing at her.

 

“Ma’am- Ma’am, I’m afraid I have to ask why. Let’s look at this from a third person perspective, you’ll be much better off with the perks we’re offering you. Did I mention your salary will be tripled? At least, triple, maybe quadrupled if you ask me to sweet talk the boss into that.”

 

“You wish for a reason?” Aleksandra raised her arm, pointing to the omnic who stood on the other side of the room. “That is the reason. I will not work with their kind, yet you allow them freely into your organization.”

“Oh you won’t need to work directly with omnics all the ti-”

 

“No.”

 

Zarya stepped around the man, going back towards her Particle Cannon. He waited a moment, and then sighed. The next time she heard his voice, he wasn’t speaking to her,

 

“Shame is has to be this way… Gladstone. Hera protocol.” Aleksandra heard a shotgun cock behind her. She turned, seeing that the omnic had indeed raised his weapon.

 

And the barrel was pointed at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hera Protocol?
> 
> Could this be... the end of Zarya? When her story has only just begun?
> 
> PS: Emily totally has a poster of Lena's 'Over The Shoulder' pose in her room. Don't even fight me on this.


	6. Terrorist Recruitment Strategy #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you really have no other option...

_“Gladstone. Hera protocol.”_

 

 

 

 

 

Aleksandra didn’t waste time panicking, instead she tried to think of a way out of this mess. The Particle Cannon? No, too far. Besides, it needed time to power up that she certainly didn’t have. Lunge at one of them? Also not an option. The omnic would shoot her the moment she made a move-

 

“I know what you’re probably thinking,” Moretti said, turning to walk a few paces away from her. Aleksandra heard him sigh as he lifted his beret to readjust it, and once a few more paces away turn on his heel to face her again. Except this time, there was an almost solemn look on his face. “That there is no way we’d actually kill you here.”

 

“... No. Why else would you bring the gun.” She says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 

A moment of awkward, confused silence passes, Gladstone seemingly the only one unaffected by it. Although Aleksandra simply furrowed her eyebrows at the man, Moretti seemed a little more off-put. His jaw worked wordlessly for a few seconds because apparently nobody had ever answered with such bluntness.

 

“Oh.. well I, most people think we’re bluffing. You know, trying to intimidate…”

 

Aleksandra, even at this distance needing to look down at the man, who could probably grab his entire face with one hand and crush it, slowly raised a brow at him.

 

“... right, bad word choice. Well- anyway most people don’t think we’ll actually shoot them, and, this is where I usually have to explain how easy it would be to cover your death up. So… you don’t like omnics.” The man said, smoothly going from being put off balance right back into a practised monologue. “And, let’s say you and Gladstone didn’t get along. Maybe you tried to attack him. He feared for his life, shot you, and seeing as his programming ensures he always goes for kill shots… That’d be the end of it. We’d walk out of here, looking terrified, say we were the victims of omnic persecution. And the world would believe it. Russia doesn’t have the best track record with omnic acceptance.”

 

Monologue done, Moretti took a breath. He lifted his eyes back to Aleksandra’s, no trace of the cheerful demeanour from before present.

 

“This is your final chance to reconsider our offer, now that you have been assured that we do mean to use lethal force if denied. Do choose wisely, Ms.Zaryanova. The world could seriously benefit from yo-”

 

“You know my answer.”

 

The lieutenant sighed, shaking his head once more. Aleksandra was no coward. If this was the death she was meant to have, so be it, because she would sooner accept that than willingly betray her people by working alongside those mechanical monsters. No. No, Zarya wouldn’t change her decision, despite the sadness that seemed shockingly genuine from the man in uniform.

 

“Yes. I suppose you’ve made up your mind then.” Moretti took a breath, straightening his back. He nodded to Aleksandra, perhaps his version of a last rites before his turned his back. “You know… it never gets easier. No matter how many times I do this.”

 

“Gladstone. Execute target.”

 

Aleksandra turned her gaze to the omnic then, unwilling to show any weakness in the face of death. There was no escaping it now anyway. She just waited for the shot to ring out…

 

At any second, it would all be over.

 

… any second.

 

But many tense seconds passed, and the blast of the gun didn’t come. Instead, the onmic’s eyes flared a brilliant purple. Aleksandra watched in mute fascination as Gladstone turned the shotgun on himself, barrel to his forehead-  
  
“Gla-Wait, no!” Moretti only had time to raise his hand, reaching futilely for the gun before-

 

He fired.

 

The moments that followed the shot were hollow. There was the resounding buzz of the gunfire ringing in both of their ears, confusion on both ends and horror in Moretti’s eyes as he watched the lifeless shell crumple to the floor. The faceplate of his companion had all but caved into itself from the blast, bits and pieces of metal now scattered on the ground behind it.

 

Before either could properly react, something else happened. A throwing knife seemed to materialize out of no where, the sleek blade whirling through the air like shadows on the free way until it met it’s mark. Embedding itself deep within Moretti’s neck.

 

The first thing he did was tentatively reach up, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening despite the choking gurgles that had become his gasps for breath. The blood didn’t spray- it flowed freely, like trickling rivers down his neck and into his clothes. The desperate man tried to stop the bleeding with his fingers, eyes pleading to Aleksandra for help. But she didn’t move. Instead, the Russia lifted her eyes to search the room for the source of the knife, to see if her would-be saviour intended to make a victim out of herself as well.

 

What she saw was a figure slowly shimmering into view a couple metres away. How was that possible? Cloaking? Teleportation? And if the first, Aleksandra wondered, how long as they been here? As the intruder came fully into view, it was pretty easy to discern she was a woman. Dressed in black from combat boots, and cargo pants to the dark overcoat that was covered with sheathed knives of varying sizes. The lower half of her face was hidden by a bandanna that fit snugly over her nose, while her eyes were concealed by what looked to be ski goggles. Tinted red, a very much similar shade to that of her hair.

 

“Hm… not the prettiest sight, is it,” Came a feminine voice, carrying an Irish accent.

 

Aleksandra looked back at Moretti. His eyes were bloodshot now, face turning a swollen purple as he crumpled to the ground. Concious still. Twitching.

 

“Most neck wounds are not fatal. You are lucky.” The Russian commented back, tearing her gaze away from the quickly expiring man. She took no pleasure in his death, apparently missing whatever appreciation the knife-wielding woman had for the gruesome sight. Aleksandra couldn’t see her eyes, but she knew they were fixed on the lieutenant.

 

“I know what I’m doing.”

  
  
“Hmph,” The bodybuilder crossed her arms. “Who are you?”

 

The woman lifted her head, turning away from the bloody scene.

 

 

_..._

 

“Emily O’Deorain. Talon Agent.”

 

“The terrorists.”

 

“The liberators.”

  
  
“The murderers.”

 

“We prefer the protectors of free will.”

 

“The ones who fight Overwatch.”

  
  
“Yes,” Emily replied simply, walking over to retrieve her knife from Moretti’s neck. It came free with a soft squelch, blood pouring anew from the wound. “And the only people who can protect you from them. Seeing as you already burned their olive branch, what do you say to ours?”

 

Aleksandra looked around her workspace. There was little hope of a future here- a future in any legitimate organization so long as Overwatch had it’s eyes on her. And something told her their approach would be less kind after the events had transpired today. It wasn’t so much making a choice as it was acknowledging a decision already made for her.

 

“Too many distractions here anyway.”

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere not far away, Agent Sombra hid in a closet filled with cleaning supplies. Because the life of an internationally wanted terrorist hacker was not always as glamorous as it might seem to be. One hand tapped on a hard light display, hacking into the military base’s computers for useful information while she multi-tasked with her cybernetic implants. She’d been halfway through extracting dirty texts from a general to his mistress when she felt a buzz in the back of her mind. A message?

 

She brought it up on her hard light screen without so much as a thought- another perk of cybernetics.

**Anciana: I have done as you asked. Where now, and when.**

****

Sombra leaned her head back against the wall, one hand covering her mouth as she giggled like a school girl. And so, another one of many plans set in motion comes together… now that she had the old hag’s attention, proceeding would not be hard at all. However her thoughts were interrupted by her ear piece buzzing to life, and Emily’s voice coming across as clear as always.

 

“Agent Sombra, proceed to extraction.”

 

“Ahh you convinced Ms.Muscle to come along already? Hah, _nada mal chica!_ Got the hots for this one too?”

 

Sombra ignored the heavy sigh that came through before the line went dead, and didn’t even try to stifle her laughter as she activated her cloaking device. Whatever… she could finish making friends here another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm going away for two days, so no updates between now and then. But here's what you have to look forward to;
> 
> Anciana? Who dis? (Hint hint: Google translate)
> 
> What is Emily's codename? Idk either- so give me some suggestions!
> 
> Finally: Moira is going to pay Angela a visit very, very soon. ;)


	7. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well. Version... six, complete? Hopefully practice makes perfect.

Aran Islands, Ireland.

6:27 AM

 

 

Moira grew up on the Aran Islands.

 

Despite the advancements of modern technology, the inhabitants of these three Irish islands tried to preserve the memory of ‘a simpler time’. No onmics, no hover cars, and a genuinely peaceful lifestyle. Which, had made it a prime spot for the O’Deorains to raise their toddler son and still infant daughter. Somewhere far away from the hectic lives they’d led for decades prior in Dublin.

 

Their sizeable income allowed the pair to have a home built, not far from the beautiful Kilmurvey Beach. A three story cottage and small stables constructed from locally sourced materials, a picturesque addition to the unpretentious landscape of rolling fields and historic landmarks, while being a comfortable mix of modern and rustic within.

 

And this is how Moira grew up. As a small girl sitting in the garden with her father while he read old poetry books with her, eventually growing weary, burying her face into his sweater. Not caring that it smelled too strongly of cologne. The rumble of his laughter as he scooped her up and carried her to her room.

 

Growing older, and into the petulance of sibling rivalry. Conor being the superior equestrian, her spending weeks practising on the back of a stallion, many weeks more competing against him whenever she had the chance. Being surprised by the pride in one of Conor’s rare smiles when she finally won one of their little competitions.

 

Being well into her teens, her eternally busy mother still ever so perceptive when one of her children was troubled. Supportive while Moira was questioning certain… aspects of herself. Mrs.O’Deorain helping Moira select her now signature hairstyle, buying her daughter’s first set of dress shirts, teaching her how to properly tie a Windsor Knot. An off-hand comment, about how the teen would probably be better suited asking her father for dating advice now.

 

And all those memories came from the house she found herself approaching now.

 

She hadn’t come to dwell on those thoughts though. More so out of necessity, a fact she was reminded of by the addition of foreign but familiar items to her childhood home. A pair of white sneakers with yellow laces sat on the stone porch, the path they had walked shown by a trail of muddy prints. Just a few steps beyond the front door, left unlocked, sat a canvas duffel bag. The flap hung open, and a few woolly clothes had been left haphazardly spilling from within. Even from this distance Moira could smell the perfume that clung to the clothing, the same that all too often ended up seeping into her own.

 

Ah… but the scent was quickly overpowered by that of coffee, like a thick cloud wafting through the lower floor of the house. Moira stepped out of her boots, just as filthy as the sneakers, but opted to follow the aroma to it’s origin immediately instead of hanging her coat. A quick glance at her timepiece assured the scientist it was right around the hour her likely guest would wake to brew her idea of ‘breakfast’.

 

Which was a pot of coffee. Obviously.

 

A pot of coffee that sat on the coffee table (because of course it did) of the living room, next to a white mug filled with (you guessed it) coffee. The figure responsible for the fresh pot was seated on the leather couch, cocooned within a black duvet with only a mop of unkempt gold locks left to be seen.

 

“Well well my dear, I cannot say I am surprised to see you awake. But might I remind you that, when not on duty you __do__  have the authority to sleep through these ungodly hours? Or is that quite impossible to do when you’ve a caffeine addiction to satisfy?” Moira teased, placing her hands on the back of the sofa.

 

The cocoon moved, shifting around until sharp features that seemed even more pale than they were from the presence disarmingly vibrant blue eyes moved to land on Moira. Getting younger she was not; but despite the tiredness in her expression, Angela Ziegler looked far from aged. She pursed her lips and studied the other, letting the silence of the room settle heavily before she spoke.

 

“As much as I missed you Moira, the lesser half of me already wants you to shut up.”

 

“You say that as if I’m shocked… or any part deterred,” Moira strode to the back of the couch, raising her right hand to hook a finger into the duvet. She pulled it down without any resistance from Angela, just enough to expose the lower half of her face completely, and see that she was wearing one of her cream coloured turtlenecks. With the most self-satisfied smirk the geneticist could muster she leaned down, closing the considerable distance of height between them. Their faces merely inches apart, Moira damn near purred out the rest of her words. “I maintain greater interest in what the better half of you wants me to do, angel.”

 

A delicate hand emerged from the thick blanket, and Moira felt the warm palm press against the centre of her chest. It shifted upwards slowly, the taller’s smugness met with an impassive expression as Angela’s fingers wrapped around her tie. With a sudden roughness, Moira was yanked forward-

 

To have her cheek quickly kiss, and then she was shoved back with equal force by a giggling Angela. “Ask yourself then, Süsse.” The blonde said with exaggerated sweetness but a genuine smile. She unfurled the blanket, turning her back to Moira again to reach for her cup, knowing that the exaggerate pout of Moira’s expression would just make her laugh more. “Did you bring the documents?”

 

 

 

From a tree line to the west, someone crouched in the shade of thick branches.

 

_Three turquoise lines illuminated the shadows cast by an indigo-black hood, forming an opened edged triangle of sorts in their pattern._

 

The same individual that had watched Emily and Lena’s exchange not long ago, now listened to Moira and Angela via a device provided by her ‘contact’. She kept her eyes on the targets through the scope of her rifle, though she had no intention of using the weapon. The only skill required was patience… and this old timer had it in spades.

 

The device in her left ear continued to feed her the audio from the home, with surprising clarity.

 

“Not documents dear- document. Only one, but one that should provide more than enough to satisfy Morrison.”

 

“Something that will bring Talon down for good?”

 

“You invented the nanites that all but halted our ageing processes, my dear. Unless your intelligence suffered immensely from my absence, you know what he’s really after.”

 

Another span of silence passed. The figure watched Moira seat herself next to Angela, passing the woman a piece of paper from the pocket of her coat. As her wife read whatever information it bore Moira put an arm around the blonde’s shoulders and pulled her close, tucking the other’s head under her chin. She then closed her eyes, as if to savour the moment. It was a sweet gesture. Sweeter than the observer ever thought Moira O’Deorain capable of being.

 

Angela seemed more than happy about it too, smiling, leaning back on Moira… until her expression soured as she neared the end of the page.

 

“Is it… are you sure he will be there?”

 

“Yes. As well as I am sure that the other agents listed will be participating in the mission. A perfect opportunity to eliminate the greatest threats posed by Talon.”

 

“Moira. You’re on this list.”

 

“All the better, I will openly defect from Talon at the most opportune moment.”

 

“It’s dangerous-”

 

“It’s necessary.”

 

The urge to put her rifle down spiked when the figure watched the couple stare each other down. Luckily for her, it was a short lived battle of wills, quickly ending with Moira accepting the terms provided by Angela. She would not embark upon whatever mission was being discussed until a list of requirements were met. A list that mostly included defensive modifications to Moira’s gear and her ‘Biotic Amplification Serum’. And the final term… Angela pleading for her wife to be safe.

 

That one was met not only by acceptance, but assurances and an embrace. It was what made the figure avert her gaze and remove the listening device. Despite their affiliations, there was line of privacy she would not cross. Although an ironic principle to have… considering who had sent her here.

 

Speaking of…

 

The figure rose and walked back into the forest. Hours later, when the Shrike had found her way off the islands, she sent her contact a message.

 

**Anciana: I have done as you asked. Where now, and when.**

****

****

****

****

****

Two Days Later

???, ???

11:34 AM

 

 

Jesse Mcree weighed the irony of his situation. He’d joined Blackwatch to escape a lifetime prison sentence, only to end up an internationally wanted terrorist… at least in Deadlock he didn’t have to worry about being, tracked by his cell phone or some shit. Well technically he still didn’t need to worry about that, thanks to Sombra. But the whole situation was still so…

 

“Swell.” He muttered to himself, eyes rolling beneath the brim of his hat.

 

His left hand went to reach for the bullets left on his desk. He rolled the cool casing between his fingers, considering all the ways he could escape the boredom of being left at HQ without an assignment. Could pass the time at the shooting range, maybe taunt LaCroix into another sharpshooting competition.

 

Then again. His ego was scarcely willing to take another hit, only so he could hold the gorgeous Frenchwoman’s attention for a few minutes. While she whooped his ass as a marksman, of course. Maybe he’d go to Sombra’s door again. They could hit the bar, cause a little trouble-

 

“Jesse.”

 

“SHi- Ah told you to stop doin’ that Gabe!”

 

The bullet clattered on the equally cold, stone floor. Dropped out of shock. Jesse let out a huff as he stood up, turning around to face his visitor.

 

Gabriel Reyes. Or, the Reaper as most people knew him now. It wasn’t as if anyone could recognize the man behind the ashy skin, who had swirling back clouds for eyes. His facial hair was patchy at best, nothing like it was before the incident. Not that any of that bothered Mcree. He’d long gotten used to it.

 

“Emil- er, Flashpoint needs a hand with her equipment. Why don’t you head over to the courtyard before she stabs someone.”

 

Jesse squinted at the man, folding his arms with a sigh. “Suppose I could help ‘er out yeah, ain’t a problem. Could ya use the door next time though?”

 

Gabriel’s cracked lips twitched, the closest he came to smiling these days. His hand dropped heavily on Jesse’s shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. Then he was gone, dissolving into a black cloud that left the same way he entered. The air ducts.

 

Jesse groaned.

 

“Guess that’s my answer, huh?”

****

****

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to Multikicker for Emily's codename. Flashpoint! (she's really going to live up to the name, you'll see)
> 
> Are you mostly clueless as to what is going on between the two organizations at the moment?
> 
> GOOD! 
> 
> Because we are officially... only halfway through the introductions. Ana Amari AKA The Shrike is next!


	8. Linchpin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Background for Ana
> 
> And... Daily life at the Talon HQ

Seven Years Ago

 

 

Overwatch, [REDACTED] HQ

8:21 AM

 

At times, Ana wonders if she’ll ever understand him like Gabriel does.

 

Because she doesn’t know what Jack’s been up to lately. All the missions he doesn’t run by her before clearing, the meetings with politicians he won’t tell her about. All these ‘projects’ Winston works on that she suddenly doesn’t have clearance to know the slightest details of. He’s been systematically shutting her out for weeks now, and she can tell by all the brooding Gabe has been up to that Jack’s been doing the same to him too.

 

‘Give him time.’ Gabriel tells her, time and time again when she finds herself in his quarters, pacing the dimly lit room while her frustrations threaten to boil over. The secrets don’t bother her, not as much as they should. It’s every name that crosses her desk in a casualty report. It’s every family member that calls her up to ask why they can’t know how their sister, or their son, or their father or daughter died. Knowing that all these soldiers had people who depended on them, and being unable to offer them any more than some hollow words of condolences.

 

There is a _long_ list of things Ana would like to give Jack. Time isn’t one of them.

 

Still, she listens to Gabriel. Despite how they disagree on… nearly everything, he knows Jack better than she ever will. So Ana gives Jack the benefit of the doubt, he deserves that much after all these years of service together.

 

But that changed this morning.

 

She was called in at 5 AM, to participate in a mission that was, as far as she could tell, squarely in Reyes’ domain. Blackwatch’s domain. So she’d grabbed Jack’s arm, yanking him into an empty office while they walked towards the Hanger.

 

 

 

 

“It’s technically out of our jurisdiction. Nobody has been allowed there since the city was hit by the crisis.” Ana argued, voice hushed. The thin walls warranted some self restraint, despite her irritation.

“Nothing is beyond our jurisdiction. The Petras Act-”  
  
“-Doesn’t extend to places that do not answer to laws. It’s worse than the Outback there, precisely why Talon chose it. Why won’t you just send Gabriel? He can take care of it quietly.”  
  
“We shouldn’t need to-!” A pair of footsteps from the hall silenced Jack just as suddenly as he raised his voice. Ana glared at him, and his jaw clenched shut as they waited for the footsteps to fade. Once they did, he returned to a hushed tone. 

“We should not need to do this quietly. People have to trust us Ana, the only way we keep that trust is if we protect them. This hostage situation is perfect for that. To send a message to terrorist groups like Talon, that we’ll do whatever it takes to take them down.”

 

“Jack you aren’t _listening_ to me,” The Captain hissed back, brown eyes fixed on blue. “A show of force will do us no favours. The only reason they have all this success recruiting is because we have this power. Unless we show restraint, it will only get worse.”

 

“I disagree.” Jack said, left hand going to rest on his belt, thumb hooked into the leather. He continued, and by the tone of his voice made it quite clear there was no more room to argue. “Grab your gear. We’re wheels up in 30.” And just like that… he wasn’t going to listen any longer.

 

She watched him leave, every bit as furious as Jack seemed to be when he threw the door open. Just in time to bump into Gabriel, but not giving the man so much as a glance before he stalked down the hall.

 

The Blackwatch Commander turned towards the office his partner just vacated, confused, until he recognized Ana’s silhouette in the darkened room. He extended his foot, catching the door before it started to close.

 

“Just… go Ana. I’ll talk to him when you get back.” The man said in his usual gruff rumble, but she had known Gabriel long enough to recognize his apologetic tone.

 

Ana raised her hands, rubbing her temples to soothe the inevitable headache she’d get from dealing with Jack today. She paused in the doorway, moving her left hand to Gabriel’s shoulder as she passed, giving it a light squeeze. An unspoken thanks. But as she too walked down the hall, there was no doubt in her mind that the man heard her mutter under her breath.

 

“For all the good it will do…”

 

 

 

 

 

[REDACTED], [REDACTED]

10:10 AM

 

 

 

Amélie Lacroix.

 

Another wife who lost her husband. She’d been so distressed, so livid when the details of her husbands death had been withheld. Flew all the way from France to accuse Overwatch of a cover-up… and Ana had turned her away. She’d been grieving, and though the captain herself knew the pain of loss never really healed, she had presumed to know that the widow would learn to live with what happened in time. She would move on, eventually.

 

Then she’d seen her, through the scope of her rifle. Amber eyes just as furious as they were the day she’d demanded to know what really happened to Gerard, pale cheeks just as flushed with adrenaline and rage. Ana hesitated. Amélie didn’t.

 

Surely she was screaming- the pain was, extraordinary. Blood leaked from between the fingers clutching the right side of her face… at least what was left of it. Rivets of crimson warmth soaking into her hair, pooling beneath her, anguish that turned her screams to choked breaths as her chest seized.

 

The last thing Ana Amari heard was a transport spinning up, the roar of engines quickly fading to a distant hum.

 

Then there was nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

Present Day

 

Talon HQ

11:46 AM

 

“Fer a second there, I thought Stabby was gonna stick. You sure about this new name?”

 

“Jesse.”

 

“I’m just sayin’ Darling, change ain’t always a great thing.”

 

Emily shook her head, leaning heavily on one of the concrete pillars that surrounded the open courtyard. Beside her sat none other than Jesse Mcree, whose hands were busy inspecting a contraption that had had her baffled for the past quarter hour. According to the manifest of the shipment container these little, cylindrical devices were stolen from, they were some sort of high tech flash bangs.

 

And remembering that, Emily looked away from the man who was currently slapping one of said device around, trying to get it to work.

 

“Could you exercise a little more caution? I’d like that thing not go off so close to me.”

 

“Don’t sweat it. We’ll figure this here… thing out, then you can brood all on your lonesome while I ask Madame Lacrocs for a moment of ‘er precious time.”

 

“Oh dear lord…” The redhead turned, looking down at the cowboy seated on a weapon’s crate next to her. “You don’t actually call her that, do you?”

 

“What? I’m a gentleman Em, course I do.”

 

“Idiot.” She muttered under her breath. “It’s a miracle she hasn’t shot you yet. The last guy who said ‘omelette’ in ear shot of her got a stiletto shaped bruise across his face. Wasn’t even talking about her either.”

 

“I’m tellin’ ya. She loves me. Just won’t admit it yet.” Jesse replied half-heartedly, most of his attention on the cylinder as he held it up in the light. He twisted it around, looking for any indication of a button, a switch…  
  
Emily reach out, grabbing the top.

 

“Let me take a look again.”

 

“Hey, you gotta ask nic-”

 

_Click._

When Emily pulled, and Jesse refused to relinquish the device from his one hand grip, the top half twisted away from the bottom. And if that wasn’t enough to shock both into silence, the slight vibration that followed was.

 

Jesse moved his eyes to Emily’s, letting out a little sigh.

 

“You’ll thank me later doll.”

 

The next thing she knew, Emily’s face was covered by the sweaty interior of a cowboy hat, the device slipped out of her grasp-

 

There was a moment filled only by the sound of Emily cursing, trying to get the firmly held in place hat out of her god damn face because holy hell it was unpleasant-

 

Then there world erupted in glorious, painful sensations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the effects of the flash bang finally wore off, Emily laid in the grass covered interior of the courtyard with her head in the lap of her equally traumatized friend.

 

“You really didn’t consider the ‘bang’ part? Just… ‘Oh, I’ll cover her eyes, she’ll be fine!’?”

 

“Hey, I did what I could all right. Least I tried to help, didn’t stand there like a deer in the headlights.”

 

“Yeah, yeah…” Emily turned her head to the side, just enough to see Jesse was still toying with the same flash bang that had given them an experience she’d rather never repeat. After use it had gone back to it’s untwisted state, looking good as new. “Could you not?”

 

“Relax darlin’. It’s already spent. See-”

 

Jesse twisted it again, seeking to prove that it was, indeed, harmless.

 

_Click._

The look of dread that crossed the cowboy’s face was enough to tell Emily that, yes, it had indeed vibrated again. Probably arming itself. Again.

 

“Oh you fucking idio-”

_Bang._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EMILY. FLASHPOINT.  
> FLASH. POINT.  
> FLASHBANG. POINTY THINGS AKA KNIVES! 
> 
> AHAH!
> 
> CLEVER!


	9. From what was sown...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on from Ana to Gabriel, from the day he met Jack Morrison, to the day he left his soldier boy behind.
> 
> (Nothing extra at the end as I usually do, because I want to get this out ASAP and I wasn't happy with the thing I was working on yet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is the longest chapter I've posted I believe! It only took... what, half a century to do?
> 
> Note: That feeling when you include a subtle reference to Dream Daddy Dating Simulator. 
> 
> Note 2: Pineapples on Pizza are amazing.
> 
> Note 3: Gabe is precious in his own, grizzly murderer way.

The first time Gabriel approached Jack, he hated the man more than anything.

 

Memory of the exact circumstances surrounding their first meeting would fade long before he knew to remember them with anything but displeasure. What he would always remember though, was Jack’s tousled hair, blonde and drenched with sweat. The distinct smell of aftershave, noticeable even from the other end of the locker room.

 

The muttered curse when Gabriel shoulder checked him into a bench on the way past.

 

Then looking back for a moment, and even back then, even with anger burning those blue eyes, finding it difficult to look away.

 

 

 

 

“Reyes.”

 

They stood in their army fatigues, facing one another in the entrance of the barracks. Recently thrown into the same squad, forced to work together despite several months of silent rivalry on base. Tensions couldn’t be higher. Yet, still, Jack tried to be civil whenever he saw Gabriel. Polite at the very least.

 

The courtesy was not appreciated.

 

“Boy scout.” The venomous reply, and then Gabe walked away.

 

 

 

 

Gabriel kicked an empty bucket across the room.

 

Jack leaned out of bed, grabbing the cheap plastic with both hands, vomiting into it. A side effect of their participation in the super soldier program, one that had been hitting Morrison especially hard. No explanations were given for that as far as he knew, only pills and slightly less intensive training for the day.

 

By the time he finally finished puking, Gabe was standing by his bedside, placing a glass of water on the table as well as the foil wrap packaging of his medicine.

 

“Take it. They’re not pinning your death on me.”

 

The bite that usually accompanied his words was absent. Maybe he hadn’t been quite as sick as Jack, but whatever they were being shot up with was by no means gentle with their bodies. And the rigorous tests and exercises were running the whole team ragged.

 

He sounded tired. And he hated it.

 

Luckily, Jack’s usual reaction of thinly veiled glares and sarcastic quips were nowhere to be found. He washed his mouth out with some water, spitting it out into the bucket before he pushed it aside.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Gabriel was surprised the word sounded genuine.

 

 

 

 

“Just hold on Gabe, I’m getting you out of here!”

 

He might’ve laughed at how ridiculously heroic that sounded, if he had been capable of more than a weak chuckle.

 

“Shut up… boy scout.” He murmured back, head lolling slightly while Jack dragged him through the city rubble. “You asshole… getting my pants dirty.”

 

“You just be grateful I’m chalking that insult up to the concussio- God damn it!”

 

Gabriel unhappily registered being dropped to the ground, rather roughly. Ouch? There was the rapid pop of gunfire somewhere above him, then before he knew it someone was grabbing his hand and placing it back on the wound seeping blood through his shirt.

 

Oh right, Jack.

 

“I told you, keep pressure on it.” The words were forceful, exasperated, and worried all at once. Just as frazzled and erratic as the man speaking, dusty gold hair, 5 o’clock shadow, murder in his eyes and a smoking gun.

 

Gabriel was upset when the dragging towards the nearest medic resumed.

 

Jack-fucking ‘Boy Scout’-Morrison had no business being so gorgeous.

 

 

 

 

“Really, Jack?”

 

The man in question stopped mid-step, eyes first flickering from his phone to Gabriel, then to himself.

 

He was wearing a fitting pink polo, light blue sweater draped over his shoulders with the arms loosely tied. A pair of khakis to match, and worn brown leather shoes.

 

Then there was Gabriel, leaning on the door of his truck, black leather biker jacket and faded red shirt. He also wore a pair of jeans that weren't quite skinny but, fit him well nonetheless.

 

"What?"

 

"You look like some, desperate to be hip youth minister."

 

"Oh." Jack frowned, lowering his phone. "Well. You look... devilishly handsome."

 

"That's not an insult Jack."

 

"I'm not trying to insult you. I'm trying to go on a date with you."

 

"Then what are you doing standing there?" Gabriel allowed himself the tiniest of smirks when Jack rolled his eyes, and got into his car before the other could reply.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Overwatch ended up taking them around the world. Sometimes to places only long enough to get their boots on the ground and empty their guns before it was time to hop on another plane. It was the kind of life that took it's toll on the agents, nobody's body ever truly adjusting to the timezone they were in. But it did mean that when the time for rest came, most made full use of it.

 

More often than not, Commander Reyes was not among those people. Usually he'd end up wandering the grounds of whatever place they were staying in, chasing enough fatigue to make sleep possible. Sometimes he happened across Ana Amari at these ungodly hours. Sometimes they'd keep each other company.

 

It was one of those mornings that saw Gabe and Ana sharing a pot of hot chocolate on the rooftop of the UN's Quebec HQ, and a pack of cigarettes they found in the break room.

 

"You ever try to quit?"

 

He asked, voice so low with his naturally coarse tone it sounded nearly like a growl. Not much louder than the hum of cars passing on the streets many floors below.

 

"Once. When I had my daughter."

 

Gabriel refilled his mug, steam that rose from the pot warming his hands. His eyes shifted up as the liquid poured, watching the Egyptian take a long drag from her cigarette.

 

"Pictures?"

 

Ana let the filter linger between her lips, stick burning down slowly, steadily as she reached for her wallet. From it she quickly produced a small photograph, and held it out wordlessly to Gabriel.

 

It was small. The edges were worn, not from age but from constant displacement. It was the photo of a girl who could be no older than two, maybe three, and bore a striking resemblance of her mother. Although, a lot more chubby. And drooling. Remarkably cute, almost enough to get a smile out of him.

 

"Have you tried to quit, Reyes?"

 

The question went unanswered for a lengthy pause. Long enough that the city's dampened ambience settled back into place. Gabe continued to stare at the picture, though his mind drifted away from what his eyes beheld. He hadn’t tried to, never really considered it since he started smoking back in High School. But now he had someone to lose and… perhaps. But that was a question to answer another time.

 

"She's cute."

 

He handed the picture back, gaze catching Ana's for just a second.

 

There was understanding somewhere in those dark eyes. The kind that sometimes, even Jack couldn't give him. His golden boy was always pushing everyone to be better but this...

 

This was acceptance.

 

Then Ana grinned, slyly.

 

"She takes after me."

 

He chuckled, nearly spilling his drink.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Gabe I... I don't want this to-"

 

"Jackie, _príncipe._ I'm not angry."

 

No, he was relieved.

 

Gabriel liked the freedoms he was given as Commander. Nobody to question his strategies, and having the respect he deserved after years of selfless service. The glory of being at the helm of humanity's first line of defence and retribution against the Onmics.

 

But the Crisis was over. There was no longer a need for a brilliant tactician to lead Overwatch, they needed someone people would trust. No one was better for that role than Jack. His Jack, the man who could inspire an army without so much as saying a word. He had what it took to be the figurehead of a more benevolent reputation, there was not a shadow of a doubt in Gabe about that.

 

Besides. He didn't want to have to deal with politics.

 

"Are you sure?" Jack asked, hands cupping his boyfriend's cheeks as he stared into his eyes, looking for any trace of doubt or insincerity.

 

"Yeah," Gabriel leaned forward, smirk on his lips. "Strike Commander Morrison."

 

Then his lips were on Jack's. And he was certain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gabriel had gone to great lengths to recruit his Blackwatch agents. For one, he trekked through a jungle. Another, he helped take down a multinational drug cartel. For some he’d killed, for others there had been impressive monetary offers to sweeten the deal. But none had been so simple, yet so difficult to convince as this one….

 

“Athena.” He barked, standing in the hall outside the interrogation rooms of Overwatch’s Gibraltar HQ. “I need to order a pizza.”

“Acknowledged Commander Reyes. Which delivery service would you like to empl-”

“The Hut.”

 

“Contact information for the nearest Pizza Hut has been forwarded to your holopad. Anything else Commander?”

 

“Get one of the newbies to wait for it by the front gate.”

 

“Yes Commander. Will that be all?”  
  
“Hmph.”

 

Gabriel pulled the holopad out of his pocket, and went about ordering the pizza.

 

Regular crust, check.

 

Pepperoni, check.

 

Sausages, check.

 

Onions, check.

 

…

 

Pineapples… check.

 

Extra cheese for the pie he just condemned to being an abomination, check.

 

And a can of diet coke to ease the pain. Check.

 

 

 

When the order arrived, still pipping hot in the arms of a bright eyed recruit, eager to please, Gabriel wordlessly slipped the young woman a fifty and returned to the interrogation room.

 

He opened the door to find his captive still seated at the table, idly tracing the brim of his hat. Shaggy brown mop of hair covering a good portion of a youthful face, and the old worn clothing he still had on didn’t do justice to just how scrawny the teenager really was. He could be a lot worse off though, considering the way most Deadlock recruits were treated by their gang members. Scapegoats, errand boys, target dummies…

 

Jesse McCree was special though. That’s why he was here, not spending the first of a lifetime of days in a light forsaken cell.

 

“Did you ‘member the pineapple?”

 

“I’d be a much happier man if I didn’t.”

 

“You must’ve then, cause you’re lookin’ downright miserable… Uh, sir.”

 

Gabriel rolled his eyes, tossing the box over. It landed on the table with a pronounced ‘Thwomp’, and the boy wasted no time throwing open the lid and digging in.

 

“So. Have you considered my offer, Jesse?”

 

“Ish McCree,” Jesse said, mouth only half stuffed so it was only half impolite. His eyes followed the older man as he cracked open the soda can, then moved to sit on the opposite side of the table. In between swallowing and shoving the rest of the slice into his mouth, he spoke again. “And uh, yeah, you’ve convinced me. Pizza n’ no life sentence. Sounds great. Sign me up.”

 

“Good.” Gabriel smiled, lifting the can to his lips for a sip. Given some time to train, the boy would make an excellent addition to the team.

 

Then Gabe’s eyes were drawn to the slice the starving teen all but inhaled.

 

__But could he ever trust someone who liked pineapples on their pizza?_ _

__

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gabriel brooded.

 

Whenever he had an important decision to make, he’d go to his private quarters and just…

 

Brood.

 

He started doing a lot more of that when Jack began shutting him out.

 

And he had his reasons for doing so. The first being, his prince was carrying the weight of Overwatch on his shoulders, so sometimes he was going to need space. It was fine, Gabriel would be there when Jack was ready for someone to share in his burdens. Until then he didn’t need to know where Morrison went with every mission, or why all these politicians came to meet with him.

 

The other, being that he knew himself well enough to understand that he was bound to say something he’d regret fighting with Jack. So he removed himself whenever tensions started to rise, started giving Ana the advice to do the same. They’d end up in his quarters on particularly bad nights, Amari pacing the length of the room, and him sitting on the edge of the bed. Thinking. Contemplating.

 

Brooding.

 

Always about something he’d said, or something he’d done. It had come to the point where he knew what was going to haunt him later the moment it happened. But there was one time, only one, he didn’t see this coming.

 

__“Just… go Ana. I’ll talk to him when you get back.”_ _

__

And who could blame him.

 

Jack had always been his blind spot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The screen of his holopad cracked under his grip.

 

__No._ _

__

His eyes darted to every soldier disembarking from the transport. Dawson, Lucado, Rende, Azwan… he quickly ran out of tired operatives to name, eyes snapping to the Strike Commander, stationary. Only a few steps away from the disembarking ramp.

 

“Where is she!”

 

Gabriel yelled, and the previously bustling hanger went silent. Still.

 

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t flinch. He continued to stand motionless, shoulders heavy and eyes downcast.

 

There was so much anger in that moment, Gabriel’s heart beating hard in his chest. Like it was clawing it’s way out, tearing itself apart- everything was wrong. It should have been ****his**** mission. A Blackwatch operation. He should have said something, he should have fought, he should have argued, he should have __pushed__ until Jack caved and given it to him and then- __then damn it she would be here.__

 

Oh lord… Fareeha.

 

“WHERE JACK!?”

 

The way Jack clenched his jaw only made his eyes burn more, the answer too terrible to be spoken aloud.

 

It should have been his mission.

 

It should have been his.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you want me to beg you to stay?” Jack sneered, standing in the doorway of his quarters, voice rising with every items Gabriel threw into his duffel bag. “Do you want me to apologise? Is that it? I told her to move Gabe. Pursuing the sniper was her decision, not an order.”

 

His hoodie landed with a particularly loud thump when he all but launched it from the closet.

 

“It was the right choice,” Jack continued. “we needed to do that, for reasons that apparently neither of you understand.”  
  
“Understood.” Gabriel emerged with a small stack of clothes, dropping those carelessly into the bag as well. “Neither of us understood, you made the choice anyway, and now-”

 

He zipped up his bag, eyes never leaving Jack’s.

 

“Now you lose both of us.”

 

Jack scoffed before he kept talking. He didn’t listen. Couldn’t, Gabriel was afraid he might say something to change his mind. Because despite his decision, despite everything that happened leading up to it-

 

The last time Gabriel walked away from Jack, he still loved him more than anything.

 

But there were some betrayals even love couldn’t forgive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Losing Ana destroyed whatever relationship Gabe and Jack had in every universe, honestly. 
> 
> Next chapter is going to focus on Mr.Strike Commander himself! 
> 
> Maybe some Fresh Assassins.
> 
> Maybe some Genius Gorilla. 
> 
> I promise nothing.


End file.
